


reason to live / reason to die

by hualun



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Cohabitation, M/M, Meiji Era, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hualun/pseuds/hualun
Summary: “If you combine our names together, you get ‘Great Silence’. I think it fits us quite well."In which Matsukawa is commissioned to paint a marriage portrait of Hanamaki Takahiro, an aristocrat's sheltered son.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	reason to live / reason to die

**Author's Note:**

> [title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5aMav6q-o0). plot is a spinoff of "portrait of a lady on fire" dir. celine sciamma. previous knowledge not necessary.

Recently, Matsukawa has been thinking his life is missing something.

As a run-of-the-mill painter, there really isn’t much to complain about. He only needed to take his brush to the cloth and could make money off it, a privilege not many people had. With his training in oil paint, his skills were all the more coveted.

Matsukawa did not particularly care much for the lack of artistic expression that his colleagues complained about, nor the growing sentiments of preserving the traditional style. Work was work, and if he could put food on the table he was satisfied with whatever that came his way.

So when he gets the letter to do a marriage portrait of a marquess’s son who lived far up north, room and food provided for a week, he accepts it without a second thought.

The only problem?

_“My son is particularly adverse to posing. With my sincerest apologies, you will have to do this portrait in secret, as he believes you are just to be a companion for him. I hope this will not be too big of a challenge.”_

_Well, why not,_ he thinks. _This might prove to be interesting._

* * *

  
  
  


He doesn’t remember much of the lengthy journey up north. Spring was starting to announce its presence over the rolling plains, so the air wasn’t terribly chilly as the horse-drawn carriage sent over by the marquess (it seemed he was quite desperate for the painting) traversed down beaten paths.

But one event in particular stuck out—

The carriage had stopped at the outskirts of a rundown village of a modest size. Further ahead is an expansive cedar forest. Matsukawa peeks out from the window and sees a woman kneeling on the ground, next to the horses.

“Would you please, kind sir, let me in for a ride?” she pleads the driver, desperation strong in her voice.

The driver turns to face Matsukawa, wordlessly giving him the question.

The woman’s sullen eyes meet his own dark ones and she immediately bows her head. “I wish to travel up north to visit my family there, please, esteemed sir, I will do anything at your request!”

Matsukawa’s eyes flicker over her haggard appearance—dirt smudged all over her skin and clothing, which was of an unusually fine quality. While ripped at the seams in some places, the fabric is decorated with illustrious patterns, faded by time. It didn’t escape his eyes that the neckline is hung lower than normal.

“The marquess wishes you at his residence as soon as possible,” the driver reminds him. “I do not particularly mind whatever decision you make, but we must make haste.”

“Keep moving then,” Matsukawa says. “There is not enough room for her, anyways.” Which was true; his large box of supplies occupied the seat next to him.

Without a word, the whip is brought down on the horses, and the carriage starts its slow trek over the road.

“I do not even need to ride in the carriage!” the woman cries out, now hastily walking next to them. “Please! I only ask for travel!”

He produces a couple gold coins from a small satchel at his side, reserved for food and inn payment, and tosses it out the window, offering a meager prayer wishing there would come a better time for her.

The carriage trudges forward into the cedar forest.

* * *

The marquess’s residence came into view a couple days later; a modest villa with hints of Western architecture, indecisive over which side to stick with, showing signs of age. Matsukawa thanks the driver and crosses the small wooden bridge at the entrance, the sound of running water beneath his feet. He’s wearing a dark suit he changed into earlier this morning and carrying an egregiously large wooden box filled with all his supplies, briefly wondering just how out of place he looked.

As soon as Matsukawa enters the villa and puts on a pair of slippers, he’s soundlessly ushered by a servant who leads him through a maze of hallways until they reach a pair of double doors. A painting of a tree embellishes it, branches sprouting with white blossoms extending across the left side. The servant motions for him to set down the box. 

“Hanamaki-sama, the painter has arrived,” they announce before sliding open the door, revealing a large room with tatami flooring. Situated in the center is a small wooden table, painted black, with a gilded pot of tea and tea cups laid out, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Sections of the sides of the room are cut out where various heirlooms of the family are proudly exhibited: two swords with decorated sheaths, a long scroll painting of a waterfall, and various painted vases sit on top of the shelves. The _shogi_ doors on the opposite side are slid open, revealing the balcony and a part of the garden. 

The marquess, a man of tall stature greets him. His hair, cut short, is of a muted coral color the likes of which Matsukawa has never seen before. The marquess’s eyes are thin with small wrinkles at the corners and his lips are drawn tightly across his face, which is squarely built, cut with a knife’s edge.

“Greetings, and welcome to my residence. I am Hanamaki Takeyoshi.” Matsukawa’s about to bow to him, but the marquess instead extends a hand out, which he shakes and says his name in return. “Please, take a seat.” The servant pours them steaming cups of tea as they sit, Matsukawa’s back leaning against the chair like a ruler.

“I formally apologize for being such out of the way from Tokyo,” Marquess Hanamaki continues stoically. “Our residence there is still under construction. I hope there were no troubles for your travels?”

“No, everything went fine,” Matsukawa answers, taking a sip of tea—green, finely milled.

The marquess nods his head. “That’s good to hear. As stated in my letter, you’ll be here for a total of one week and my son believes you are to be a companion to his walks for him, so please keep in mind of that.”

“Understood. Are there any habits he has that I should look out for?”

“Habits?” The marquess’ eyebrows knit together in thought, the only sign of motion on his face thus far. “None in particular, he’s just a normal boy, though his friendships with others has been a bit limited. Perhaps that’s why he’s on the rowdy side—are you proficient in the sword?”

Adequate enough, Matsukawa replies, though he hasn’t held a blade in years.

“My son may ask to duel with you. While I do not mean to brag, he is quite skilled in that area, as he’s received lengthy instruction since his early years.” Marquess Hanamaki rises from his seat and Matsukawa does the same.

“Well, I shouldn’t keep you here for long, I’m sure you’re quite weary from the long journey,” he says. “The servant will show you to your room which you are free to use at your leisure. My son is out in the garden and is already aware of your arrival. Once you are set, feel free to search for him if you wish. I look forward to the completion of the painting.”

They shake hands again and Matsukawa exits the room, hoisting his trunk in his hands. After another lengthy maze, he’s led to his room, situated at the far end of the residence. It’s filled with the essential furnishings—a bed, a desk, and a chair. Matsukawa sets down the large box carefully, takes off his suit jacket and throws it onto the bed (something he’s never slept on before, as his dingy place back in Tokyo only has a futon). He unpacks the box, sets up the easel and places a blank canvas on it. 

There’s something large draped with a white cloth also in the room, but Matsukawa doesn’t pay much attention to it: his priority currently is finding the son.

He ambles around in the large residence until he finds the back area, giving him a perfect view of the garden. Small pine trees and landscape rocks are scattered all over on the hills, perfectly manicured. Out in the distance is a pond, lily pads bursting from the surface. A large forest surrounding the whole grounds acts as a natural barrier, enclosing everybody in a natural utopia—or perhaps it was the bars of a cage, he’s not entirely sure.

Matsukawa finds the son sitting on a rock without too much effort. Just like his father, Hanamaki Takahiro had the muted coral hair cut short, a sharply defined jaw, and thin eyes, but much more youthful than his father. The afternoon sunlight bathes his pale skin in a luminous glow. It wasn’t the type of face to make headlines, but not a terrible face to look at either. Kind of cute honestly, depending on how you looked at it.

Hanamaki notices Matsukawa approach him and silently gives him a once-over with narrowed eyes. He gets up from his spot without a word, adjusting his kimono.

And then he runs.

* * *

  
  


_What the hell have I gotten myself into,_ Matsukawa thinks as he’s twenty paces behind the man, the sleeves of his kimono fluttering behind him. They rush past trees and bushes, all starting to bud, then down a hill, until they reach the pond.

Matsukawa thinks Hanamaki’s about to jump in the water, but moments before Hanamaki reaches the edge he suddenly stops in his tracks, panting lightly.

“Why did you do that?” Matsukawa asks after finally catching up, also regaining his breath. 

“I don’t like it.”

“Like what?”

“People in suits.”

Matsukawa quirks an eyebrow and looks down at his dress shirt and pants—while well-worn, it was the only Western-styled clothes in his possession, so it was unusually well-kept, free of wrinkles and loose threads.

“You’re joking. This isn’t even considered a suit.”

“I know. And I don’t like it.”

Hanamaki turns to face the pond and Matsukawa joins him in silence, subtly glancing over to the man every now and then.

The marquess’s son noticed once.

* * *

When painting a portrait, it is important to keep in check the ears.

Every ear is like a fingerprint; unique to each person. When painting an ear, a warm and transparent tone must be used, often light in tone, asides from the hole, the only dark shade. However, the ears must never overpower the cheeks.

Hanamaki’s ears were in clear view as they walked back to the residence—somewhat pointed at the tips, with defined cartilage forming a clear Y shape, reminding Matsukawa of the elves in Germanic myths.

When night falls, he gets to work on the painting, sitting on the floor (he never liked working at a desk). The servant gave him a candle to use, which is placed right in front of him. He starts sketching various views and parts of Hanamaki’s face by the dim light, pulling out the wisps of their first meeting and spilling them onto the pages. Later, he picks out the compositions he likes the most (though he’s not really sure of the difference, as they’re all vague faces of some stranger).

He snuffs out the candle some time even later and falls asleep listening to the sounds of the natural night, something he hasn’t heard in a long time.

* * *

As the morning sun filters through the window, there’s a knock at his door.

“Matsukawa-sama. The young master wishes to take his walk now,” the servant’s voice floats through.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” he calls out and sets down his charcoal. Giving the rough sketch on the toned canvas a final look-over, he takes off his smock and folds it away.

Once he steps outside, the servant shows him to the front of the residence (still a confusing mess of turns to him), where Hanamaki is waiting at the entrance, a dark brown _haori_ draped on his shoulders. He doesn’t make a sound, only nodding his head upon the painter’s arrival, and immediately heads outside.

Thankfully, there were no unexpected surprises laying in wait today. Hanamaki takes him across the hills to the pond they ran to yesterday, the early spring wind bringing a chilly tinge to the air, and sits down on the grass. Stretching across the pond is a wooden bridge, leading to a large pine tree on the other side, reflected in the dark, still water.

Matsukawa takes this time to scrutinize Hanamaki’s face some more, making mental notes of how his eyes are positioned in comparison to his nose, his thin eyebrows slanted upwards, his pale lips, two strokes of a brush—

“What are you looking at?” Hanamaki’s voice breaks his concentration.

He blinks twice before registering the question. It sounded more like an interrogation rather than a conversation starter.

Nothing in particular, Matsukawa answers placidly. I think I would like to swim.

“Today?” This elicits a snort from Hanamaki. “You must be crazy. In this weather?”

“Not today, obviously. When it gets warmer some day.”

“You know how to swim?” Hanamaki’s eyes continue to search him.

“Somewhat."

“Hmm.” In the distance, the song of a bird fills the silence. “How long are you staying here?”

“Six more days.”

Hanamaki decides to end his slew of questions there, clearly bored by his curt answers. Matsukawa’s eyes trail down to Hanamaki’s hands placed one on top of the other in his lap. Hands, too, can reveal much about a person; if they were slightly off in some way, it’s immediately noticeable. Hanamaki’s hands are large and calloused—perhaps from holding a sword.

A gust of wind breezes past, chilling them to the bone, and Matsukawa wonders if he should’ve said something more.

* * *

With broad strokes and large swaths of colors, he starts blocking in the face later that afternoon, using his sketches as reference. The marquess wanted him painted in a specially-tailored suit, which is currently just an outline on the canvas. In six more days, he’ll be gone from the residence and onto the next job. 

Matsukawa puts on the blazer of the suit, inspecting it in the mirror. It’s a bit too short at the cuffs. _Probably a perfect fit for him,_ he thinks. He observes how the fabric is laid on his body, the workings of each fold and crease, smoothing down the small wrinkles.

He continues his painting, distantly imagining how Hanamaki would look wearing it.

* * *

They sat down near the pond again the next day.

“So what’s the deal with you and the marriage?” Matsukawa asks, finally deciding to break the ice. Today, the wind is a little less strong, so Hanamaki opted out of his dark brown _haori_.

“How much do you know about it?” Hanamaki asks curtly.

“You’re going to wed a girl from Italy. A rich one too, from the sounds of it. Then off to her place in Rome for the two of you.”

While such arrangements are rare—the wife usually moved overseas to where the husband lives—and the marquess didn’t provide an explanation for this, Matsukawa surmises the wife’s family had a higher status. 

“That’s all I know too.” He lets out a small exhale that disappears into the air. “You think I’d be happy with that?”

“You’d rather stay here? No want for exploring?”

“The girl could be some real ugly one. Then what would I do?”

Matsukawa stares at him for a couple seconds. Blinks once, twice.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me, that’s the thing you’re worried about? The attractiveness of your wife?” he scoffs, incredulous at the question posed. “Shouldn’t you be worried about, I don’t know, actually getting a job there? Or do you rich little boys already have that good to go from your fathers?”

He realizes a bit too late, those three words he’s said. But Hanamaki gives him a large, lopsided grin in response.

“You bet I do, got a problem with it?”

“Some of us worked hard to get to where we are now, you know.”

Hanamaki leans in imperceptibly closer. His dark eyes stare directly at Matsukawa, no signs of backing down. “What do you do then?”

Funeral services, he makes up on the spot. 

Pale lips drop open slightly in disbelief and a look of genuine confusion crosses over Hanamaki’s face. “No way. How would my father send in somebody like you?”

“What, am I not up to your expectations?” Matsukawa motions to the lush scenery in front of them. “My apologies for not having the luxury to grow up with this.”

“So the stuff on your hands is from your job then,” replies Hanamaki, gesturing to Matsukawa’s fingers on the grass. Matsukawa examines them curiously, realizing that smudges of dark paint were still on them and hurriedly wipes it off with his sleeves.

Oh, you know. Touching dead bodies can get messy sometimes, he says breezily.

“Yeah. For sure.” Hanamaki backs away with a smirk on his lips. “You know, you’re awfully direct about things.”

“Me calling you a rich boy? Isn’t that just how it is?” Matsukawa shrugs casually. “What’s so direct about that?”

Hanamaki’s expression turns unreadable. “People just jump around it. If they want to say something, they should just say it,” he answers curtly.

A breeze blows past, bringing a filler in the conversation.

“I still can’t believe you actually work in funeral services though. Out of all the places to work at, that’s what you chose?”

It’s not that bad, really. Just like any other place.

“Don’t you get a lot of backlash for it? Not easy to talk about and all.”

I don’t mind, says Matsukawa, turning to face the pond to hide his face. “It’s just work, after all. I can’t control what other people think. Besides, not coming into contact with a lot of people because of it is pretty nice.”

Hanamaki continues to stare at him with those unreadable eyes for another moment before also turning away. “You’re kind of strange, did you know that?"

Matsukawa chuckles.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

* * *

True to the marquess’s word, Hanamaki challenges him to a duel the next day. They go out back to where the dojo is, the only building completely untouched by any Western additions. A testament to time, though it would most likely fall into disuse once Hanamaki left.

They spar with practice swords, the sound of wood-on-wood and the shuffling of feet their conversation. Matsukawa does his best to try and parry Hanamaki’s moves, who’s staring at him intensely in concentration, watching every tiny move of his, no doubt coming up with a plan of attack. Matsukawa’s breathing steadily turns more labored, but his opponent is the same. Their back-and-forth goes on for quite some time, a dance seemingly with no end. 

And just when his body is about to reach its limit, his every muscle on fire, he successfully pulls off a feint and traps Hanamaki into a corner.

“My point,” he pants, pointing the tip of his sword at Hanamaki’s throat. “I win.”

“Tch.” Hanamaki concedes and flops onto the floor, throwing the practice sword aside. He takes in a deep breath. “I didn’t expect you to be that defensive.”

“It’s because you kept on going on the attack,” he shoots back, also taking a seat, their shoulders some distance apart. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Heh. I guess. Still, you’re pretty good. I’ll beat you before you leave.” Hanamaki grins that lopsided grin of his.

“We’ll see about that.”

* * *

  
  


“I hope your stay here has been well?” the marquess inquires the next day, cup of tea in hand. They’re sitting in the room with the high-backed chairs and Matsukawa finds the hardness of the wood a bit uncomfortable. Sunlight cascades through the translucent sheets of the _shoji_ doors, dancing on the surface of the teapot as sparkles.

“Very pleasant,” Matsukawa replies. “This is a nice residence you have. It’s very soothing and peaceful for the mind.”

“I’m pleased to hear that from you,” he chuckles. “Though I’m afraid it’s because of those qualities that my son doesn’t want to leave here.”

“He doesn’t?”

The marquess shakes his head. “Throw in a good word for Rome if you can. How’s the portrait coming along?”

“It should be finished in two days.” He hesitates for a couple of seconds before speaking again. “If it’s possible, I would like your son to see it first.”

“Why is that?”

“‘I’d like to tell him the truth myself.”

And Matsukawa isn’t sure why. Maybe he didn’t want to keep up the chain of lies to an ever-questioning Hanamaki, maybe he was just too tired of the whole farce. Or maybe it was because his newfound acquaintance deserved to know the truth from his own mouth. 

The marquess looks at him with a steady gaze, though Matsukawa strangely isn’t afraid of it. After a moment, he nods his head. “I’ll have that arranged then.”

After another moment: “He’s taken quite a liking to you.”

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow quizzically. “How... do you know?”

“He talked about your duel the other day and said he’d train hard to beat you.” Marquess Hanamaki lets out a light chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that serious about something before.”

* * *

As promised, Matsukawa shows Hanamaki the painting two days later. He had finally revealed the truth about his occupation the day before, which Hanamaki simply replied with a “so that’s why you were looking at me so much.”

“What do you think?”

The two of them are currently standing in Matsukawa’s room, observing the completed painting. Hanamaki studies it a bit some more, and then looks over to Matsukawa.

“Is this me?”

“Who else would it be?”

Hanamaki’s eyes bore holes straight in him, as if he was trying to read the depths of his soul. “I meant, is this how you see me?”

Matsukawa crosses his arms across his chest. “Well, there’s also matters of rules and conventions in it. What people want to see,” he replies guardedly.

“How laughable,” but no laughter comes out from Hanamaki’s lips. “I can understand why it doesn’t look like me, but this is absolutely dull. There’s no presence or life in this.”

“But life is only made up of fleeting moments,” Matsukawa counters. “There’s no room for whatever you think presence is. It all disappears in the end.”

“That sounds really depressing,” replies Hanamaki, taking a step closer. “Somebody who works in funeral services could actually say that. Some feelings are deep, you know. Isn’t that what painting’s about, anyways? Making those brief moments present with your own voice?”

The room’s temperature dips a few degrees at this statement. Matsukawa’s eyes harden, meeting Hanamaki’s dark ones. He’s never had a client talk like this before, and was quite frankly shocked at Hanamaki’s outburst.

“Who says my voice isn’t in it? I didn’t know you were an art critic,” he responds coolly.

“And I didn’t know you were a painter,” Hanamaki fires back. “I’ll get my father now.” He briskly walks out of the room, sliding the door shut behind him with a resounding thud.

Matsukawa looks back to the painting again. He had indeed made Hanamaki’s eyes more enlarged, jawline more squared, lips longer, eyebrows thicker. The pinnacle of beauty standards out west. All of his clients wanted those perfect, idealized versions of themselves, and he brought those versions to life. Easy expectations to meet, easy money to make.

So why was it that Hanamaki thought it lifeless?

That man was raised just like the rest of them in a well-off family. Matsukawa’s fists clenched in anger. Hanamaki’s words were just drivel from a sheltered life; his opinion wasn’t worth anything in the grand scheme of things.

So why did it affect Matsukawa so much?

It didn’t make sense.

Matsukawa takes the rag off the easel, anger seething through his veins as he grips it tightly.

Then he smears off the face.

* * *

“What is this?”

The marquess turns to face Matsukawa with a pair of cold eyes.

“I didn’t find it satisfactory,” he replies with a bowed head. “I’ll start again.”

“You must be joking.”

“My apologies. I promise I’ll finish by the end—”

“No. There’s no need to do that. You are incompetent. You can leave.” Marquess Hanamaki’s words land like hail on pavement, delivering the final judgement.

“Father, he’s staying,” Hanamaki’s voice cuts through. 

“For what?”

“I’ll pose.”

Matsukawa’s eyes briefly widened upon hearing those two words. He looks at Hanamaki, who ignores him, instead looking straight at his father. There’s a moment of silence stretched out for an eternity that follows, a silent conversation that he doesn’t know the language of spoken. Matsukawa holds his breath in anticipation, until—

“I will permit it then.” The marquess turns back to Matsukawa. “Have this done before I come back in two weeks’ time. I still have business to attend to in Tokyo. That should be more than enough,” he says, and Matsukawa’s shoulders unconsciously drop in relief.

He gives the marquess a deep bow out of habit. “Thank you very much for your understanding.”

“I’m counting on you, painter.” Without another word, the marquess exits the room, leaving him and Hanamaki alone again.

Matsukawa’s about to ask just why Hanamaki said such a thing, but—

“You have work to do, don’t you?” Hanamaki holds up a hand with a wry smile on his face, cutting him off. “Let’s get it over with then.” His dark eyes swirl with determination and something Matsukawa couldn’t quite read, but it was enough of an answer.

“Yeah. Let’s see here—” Matsukawa pulls out the decorated chair from the desk, dragging it across the floor and setting it down in line with the easel. “Change into the suit on the bed. Don’t give me the crap about you not liking it.”

Hanamaki wiggles his eyebrows. “Want me to do it here?” 

“Here, in the garden, on top of Fuji, just get changed.” Matsukawa takes out the second canvas (he’s eternally thankful he bought two) and sets it down. With the rag, he starts toning it dark brown again as Hanamaki exits the room.

A couple minutes later, Hanamaki saunters back in, tugging at the bowtie. “This good for you?”

Just as he thought, the suit was perfectly tailored for Hanamaki. The dark blazer accentuated his shoulders and the slacks weren’t baggy nor too tight. Clean, straight lines, the image of a fine gentleman.

Something hammers a bit loudly in his chest. “Yeah. Take a seat.” Swallowing down whatever he was feeling, Matsukawa motions to the chair and Hanamaki sits down. He makes subtle adjustments to Hanamaki’s head position.

“Place your hands in your lap, like this.” Hanamaki mirrors Matsukawa’s demonstration, placing his right hand on top of his left.

“Sit up straight, don’t touch the back of the chair.” Matsukawa takes a couple steps backwards, surveying the whole scene. “Can you hold that position?”

“Just fine.”

He returns to the easel and begins the new sketch, measuring out the positions of Hanamaki’s facial features with his piece of charcoal—where the center of his eyes were, where the tip of his nose ended, where the corner of his lips extended out to, now fully confident in his markings.

“Hey. Thanks,” he says while sketching.

Something like amusement flickers across Hanamaki’s face.

“Didn’t think you were the type to say thanks.”

“I take it back.”

“Please forgive me, O Great and Wondrous Painter,” Hanamaki drawls, his lips curling at the corners.

Matsukawa rolls his eyes. “Hold still for me, then we’ll talk.”

* * *

The next day, during a short break, Hanamaki’s attention is directed at the large object in the room, draped with a large white cloth.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding his head to it.

“Small piano. Shouldn’t you know what’s in your house?” Matsukawa lifts the piece of cloth, revealing its dark brown wood, weathered at the edges. “I tried playing a couple notes, still playable.”

“I don’t come here that often. But first painting, now piano? You sure know a lot,” Hanamaki muses, his hands underneath his chin and elbows on his knees, curled up like a cat on the chair. “What’s next, you actually worked in funeral services?”

“You’re really never letting that one go, huh?”

“Nope.” Hanamaki stands up, walks over to the piano, and takes a seat at the bench. “Can you play something?”

Matsukawa lifts up the lid of the piano, fingertips touching the yellowed keys and also takes a seat, his shoulder just barely brushing Hanamaki’s. “There’s this one piece I really like, I suppose. How does it go again…”

He starts playing the piece, fast-tempoed and frantic. “It starts off with the arrival of the storm. Insects are buzzing around, they sense it.”

Matsukawa’s long fingers dance across the notes, playing from muscle memory from days long past. Hanamaki’s eyes are focused on Matsukawa’s face, his lips curved up in a smile.

“The summer storm hits here, lightning and thunder roaring down,” he continues, unaware of Hanamaki’s gaze. The piano is somewhat out of tune from disuse, its timbre light and breathy. Still, it would do for his rusty skill.

“It razes down the crops...” Matsukawa misses a note and tries again, but can’t get it right.

 _How did this go again?_ He falters, repeats the passage a couple times in intense concentration, but to no avail.

“Well, I can’t remember that part.” He stops playing and turns to face Hanamaki, seeing the lightest of freckles splashed across Hanamaki’s face, something he didn’t know existed. “There you have it.”

“I’m not gonna lie, that was kind of shitty.” There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye as Hanamaki grins. “Bet I could do better.”

“What was that? You were the one who asked, and I obliged. My apologies for not being so up to your standards.”

“Where’d you learn how to play?” Hanamaki ignores the point, but still doesn’t leave his spot on the bench.

“Rome, when I was learning to paint. My teacher thought it would be nice to learn as a change of pace. Took me to see a concert once, the pianist was playing this piece. You should go listen to it one day. Not so bad of a city.” Matsukawa rattles off a chain of incoherent words, all drying up in his throat. 

The smile on Hanamaki’s face drops and his eyes narrow. “ _Everything can happen in Rome_ , is what you’re saying?”

“Yeah, something like that. It’s really not so bad,” Matsukawa echoes lousily, shifting his gaze back to the keys. Rome felt more like a concept rather than an actual place when it came out from his mouth. He’s not sure if he really meant what he said, or what he was saying in the first place. 

“What do you want me to do?” Hanamaki asks, each word sounding like clear notes played from a grand piano.

The inside of Matsukawa’s mouth goes dry upon meeting Hanamaki’s eyes once again.

“I don’t know,” is his quiet response, and he honestly doesn’t either.

Something unknown flickers in Hanamaki’s eyes. He abruptly rises and walks back to the chair. “We should get started again.”

And Matsukawa has no choice to follow.

The painting session resumes with an unusual quiet tinged in the air, Matsukawa’s thoughts lingering on what Hanamaki’s question meant.

  
  


* * *

The servant had left for Tokyo to accompany the marquess, so the two had to cook their meals on their own. They worked together smoothly with little hitches in the process, much to Matsukawa’s surprise.

“I didn’t expect you to be this proficient in cooking,” Matsukawa confesses to Hanamaki as they’re preparing for dinner. The orange glow from the sun bathes them both in a warm glow, glinting off the edges of the metalware.

Hanamaki is chopping up beef for the curry rice in a repetitive, efficient motion. “My mother taught me when I was younger,” he replies. “Said I shouldn’t depend on others for food all that much. How’s the rice going?”

(Hanamaki’s mother, Matsukawa had learned, was kicked out of the residence after Hanamaki’s father deemed her unfit as a wife. Too unfamiliar with the ways of aristocracy—and most likely the expectations imposed on her as well, she never appeared again. It sounded like something out of a Jane Austen novel, but all fiction is based in some sort of truth.)

“Cooking, what else do you expect it to do?” He takes a look at the rest of what still needs to be chopped—potatoes, carrots, onions. He grabs a knife from the counter, takes some potatoes, and is about to chop them—

“Hey. You shouldn’t be touching knives,” Hanamaki says, placing his hand on top of Matsukawa’s. It was a cold sensation, but strangely he doesn’t mind. “Don’t want you to be cutting off your fingers in the process. Then what would you do?”

“It’s because of painting I'm careful,” Matsukawa responds wryly, a chuckle on his lips. “Didn’t expect you to be that worried about me. Besides, you could always take care of me, can’t you?”

Hanamaki removes his hand all too quickly. “Fine then, suit yourself.” He takes a bunch of carrots and resumes his work. 

Matsukawa starts chopping up the potatoes, the sound of the knife hitting wood filling the quiet late afternoon.

He swears he felt somebody glancing at his fingers every now and then, but doesn’t say it out loud.

* * *

Contrary to his word, Hanamaki wasn’t exactly the best at holding still for a long time. The corners of his lips slowly turned upwards as time went on, he would slightly shift in the seat, or his head would change angles.

“Do you paint nude people?” Hanamaki asks out of the blue, a clear look of boredom apparent on his face.

“Of course. It’s to study the figure.”

“Both men and women?”

“Yeah. Is there really nothing you can do to keep still?” Matsukawa asks exasperatedly as he’s working on the neck, laying down long strokes of paint with his brush.

“Tell me something you tell your models when you paint them,” Hanamaki offers cheekily.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re very pretty today,” Matsukawa says listlessly. “Nice complexion. Striking eyes.”

“What about me?”

Matsukawa stares at the painting of Hanamaki for a long second.

How was he supposed to say _completely unexplainable_? _Can’t be painted_? Transcended everyone that he’s ever painted before? Hanamaki held a quiet fire, one that threatened to consume the canvas. A simple snapshot would not be enough to capture its splendor.

Matsukawa didn’t have the skill to truly capture the man named Hanamaki Takahiro, but he’d die trying.

You’re a piece of shit, Matsukawa decides to say. The most annoying model I’ve had to paint, ever. Nobody could even come close, not even the blabbering old ladies.

Hanamaki grins and puffs out his chest slightly. “I take great pride in that statement.”

His heart beats just a tad bit faster as he resumes painting.

* * *

  
  


During nights when Matsukawa didn’t want to work on the painting, he went to the library at the left side of the residence. Rows and rows of books are arranged neatly on the shelves, reaching the ceiling of the room, dating from Murasaki’s _The Tale of Genji_ to Tolstoy’s _War and Peace_ , a collection any book lover would’ve loved to get their hands on. While it was mostly just to pass the time, he found solace reading the novels, momentarily able to forget where—though mostly _what,_ he finds himself thinking—in the worlds between the pages.

One night, Hanamaki came into the library claiming that he couldn’t sleep and asked Matsukawa to read him a book, which he (albeit grudgingly) obliged.

“But Patroclus defied his orders, instead pushing back the forces of Troy all the way to the gates, even killing a son of Zeus in the process. Eventually, Hector’s spear struck him to the earth,” Matsukawa reads out loud to Hanamaki lying on the ground, whose hands are tucked behind his head, completely at ease in the candlelight.

“That’s stupid. He could’ve definitely lived another day if he didn’t do that,” Hanamaki interjects.

“But there would be no other way for Achilles to end the war if he hadn’t done so.”

“Still—” he lets out a long sigh. “You can’t just up and die for an immortal, what’s the point? Chiron even said his fighting would not amount to any fame.”

“Achilles did have a weak spot, on his ankle,” Matsukawa corrects him. “But I think Patroclus was already aware of that. He chose to die for him, since the pride of Achilles wouldn’t budge.” _Among more personal things,_ whispers his mind.

“Hmm.” Hanamaki doesn’t respond for a bit, mulling over the words. “Would you?”

Matsukawa looks up from his book to meet Hanamaki’s eyes, the flame of the candle dancing in his irises. In the warm glow, Hanamaki held a softness that made his heart beat just a tad louder.

“Would I what?” he echoes, knowing full well what Hanamaki meant.

“Have died.”

Matsukawa swallows down a lump in his throat, biting his bottom lip in contemplation.

And in the library, despite him wanting to escape from this strange _feeling_ , he has no choice to confront it here. It welled up in his chest, forcing itself to be known, but he barely manages to stop it from spilling out of his mouth as he draws his face into a disinterested expression.

I probably would’ve done the same, Matsukawa answers, but his Achilles in mind is not of the light-haired man in the story. “There’s no other choice, after all.”

Really? I think I would’ve wanted to live, Hanamaki replies, not breaking his gaze. “Then again, I haven’t been in that situation before, so I wouldn’t know.”

“I don’t think many people would want to be in that situation to begin with. It’s pretty dangerous.” _Not just because of the war,_ he stops himself from saying.

“Have you ever felt it before?”

 _Love,_ is the word Hanamaki doesn’t say. Matsukawa isn’t sure how he knows, but there was no other way to fill the blank. The crackling of the candle fills the momentary silence.

He swallows down a lump in his throat. “Yeah, I think,” he says, all too quickly.

“What’s it like?”

 _Absolutely terrible,_ Matsukawa wants to say. _Completely unexpected. Would not recommend it at all._

“Hard to describe,” comes out instead.

“Let me know if you find the words then,” replies Hanamaki, all too easily. “Continue on.”

Matsukawa’s eyes linger on Hanamaki’s figure one last time and he picks up the book again.

“When Achilles finally meets Hector, he says to him: ‘There are no binding oaths between men and lions…’”

* * *

Recently, Matsukawa has been thinking less about the missing piece in his life.

Hanamaki once dragged him to the cherry blossom festival held in Ogawara. The two wore simple _yukata_ as they strolled by the riverbank, the spring sun shining gently down upon them in the clear blue sky, a perfect day for flower viewing.

They sat down in a secluded place away from the general crowds, right under a tree. Hanamaki takes out the gourd of _sake_ he brought and pours it into the small ceramic cups.

“Cheers,” he says, which Matsukawa echoes. They clink their cups together.

“I haven’t had sake in a while,” Matsukawa comments, after taking a sip. “Certainly not when viewing cherry blossoms either.”

“Me too,” Hanamaki says. “But it’s pretty nice. We should—” His voice catches in his throat. “No, actually, never mind.”

Before Matsukawa can say anything, a gust of wind flies by, scattering the dancing pink petals forward, spreading a light fragrance in the air. The tiny blossoms decorating the branches of the tree lilt gently, just mere breaths away from falling off their stems, opening their hearts for the world to see.

Matsukawa looks at Hanamaki’s face as the shower of petals rain down, simply looking at the way Hanamaki’s nose curves at the tip, how his hair complemented the color of the blossoms, how the tips of his ears were also starting to tinge red, with no ulterior motive.

 _Ah,_ he thinks. _I’ve fallen pretty deep, haven’t I?_

Moments later, Hanamaki’s eyes meet his own. Those cat-like pupils that often held an apathetic expression now stared back in a curious wonder, and his pale lips part ever so slightly.

Something in Matsukawa’s chest beats weirdly, beats loudly, beats quickly, and he wonders distantly what it’d be like to close the distance—

“...Hey. Your cup. It has a petal in it,” Hanamaki says, snapping him out of his reverie.

“What? Oh,” Matsukawa blinks, examining his cup. Sure enough, a petal had landed on the surface of the drink. He takes a sip, avoiding the petal.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Hanamaki muses. “Good tidings coming your way or something.”

“Luck? I don’t really need that right now,” he slips out. “Do you want it instead?”

Hanamaki snickers.

“No, I don’t think I need it either.”

Matsukawa sips his drink again, failing to hide the smile on his lips.

* * *

  
  


There’s a wooden bridge that they use to cross over the pond to get to the large pine tree. 

Under the tree’s shadow, the two stand right in front of each other. He’s not sure who started it, but slowly, carefully, their faces close in, shifting forward infinitesimally. Slowly, carefully, their lips meet and crash like the waves on a rocky shore, and Matsukawa has never felt something so right before.

They break apart; Hanamaki’s expression is unreadable, the only sound coming from the chirping of the birds.

And then Hanamaki runs, again,

leaving Matsukawa alone under the tree,

wondering what he did wrong.

* * *

The Hanamaki residence is dark at night as there was no running electricity, so dark that when Matsukawa finishes his dinner alone, he lights up a candle to take back to his room. While he’s not a believer of the supernatural, he half-expects something unknown to jump out from the flickering shadows cast.

To his surprise, rather than a ghost, Matsukawa finds Hanamaki in his room as he slides open the door.

“You’ve gotta stop running away like that,” he chuckles a bit forlornly. “Makes me scared and all. Like you don't actually want this.”

“Sorry,” Hanamaki mumbles. “I, er, needed some time by myself. To… think and all.”

“Have you thought enough?” Matsukawa takes a tentative step forward, waiting for a response.

And Matsukawa has never been the type to act like this before. He’s not sure what’s different about it this time around. Usually it was the model approaching him, not the other way around.

Hanamaki nods, almost imperceptibly. “Well, I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Another step forward. “What did the thoughts end up being?”

But deep down, he knows: this was something more than a casual affair, something the two of them had created, invented, called their own over these past weeks. It was something so raw and so vulnerable, yet so strong that he couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —deny it anymore. 

Hanamaki draws in a deep, ragged breath. “You said not that many people would want to be in this situation since it’s dangerous and all,” he begins. “But, I don’t think I mind it.”

Two steps forward. Matsukawa can now see the individual hairs of Hanamaki’s eyebrows lit up by the candle flame. “Really now?” he says, setting the candle down on the desk.

“Yeah, really,” Hanamaki murmurs. All in a single moment, his head rests on Matsukawa’s shoulder. “Sorry, again.”

“Don’t apologize,” Matsukawa whispers softly, leaning his head against Hanamaki. “It’s alright.”

They pull back and Hanamaki’s fingers reach out tentatively, delicately touching Matsukawa’s cheek. “Do you mind it?” he asks.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here right now, would I?” Matsukawa echoes, his mouth forming a smile. Their faces are now only a hair’s width apart, Hanamaki’s eyes sparkling in the candlelight. Matsukawa briefly wonders if all lovers felt like they were the inventors of something that could only be understood by another.

“Yeah, I guess not.”

All in a moment, their lips meet again, melting into each other. Matsukawa tastes a faint, unknown sweetness on Hanamaki’s tongue, and wonders if it was any similar to the taste of nectar. 

* * *

The next morning, Matsukawa finds a warmth in his arms, something he hadn’t felt in a long time (and time itself, he thinks, didn’t seem to flow anymore, in their floating world).

“Get up,” he says through a large yawn as he peels himself off from the bed. “It’s morning already.”

Hanamaki stirs underneath the blanket and turns to face Matsukawa. Your morning face is absolutely hideous, is the first thing that comes out from his mouth. “You look dead.”

“Wow, not even a good morning? I’m hurt,” Matsukawa teases.

“What were you expecting?”

Matsukawa smiles through his half-asleep state. He’s been doing that a lot recently, he notices.

“Nothing else.”

* * *

  
  


“I’m bored.”

“It’s been five minutes.”

“I know.”

Matsukawa looks at his model, who has a roguish look on his face—doing anything but being still. The painting is now in the final stages, but he still asked Hanamaki to sit down, perhaps out of habit.

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

“What if I can’t?”

Matsukawa sighs in defeat. He sets down his paintbrush, examining the painting again. Soon, it’ll be finished (it’ll be all over). So maybe that’s why he humors Hanamaki for a bit.

“You have that look on your face that’s asking to go outside right now,” he says. “Your right eyebrow raises upwards whenever you want to do that.”

“Does it?”

“And then both of your eyes narrow when you’re in shock.”

A desperate attempt at a blank look crosses Hanamaki’s face. “What else do you know?”

Matsukawa sets down his paintbrush. “You tilt your head slightly downwards and to the left whenever you’re thinking of something deep. Your lips curl when something bothers you.”

“Oh yeah? Well, whenever things get hard for you, you breathe through your mouth. If there’s something you’re angry about, you start tapping your foot. If you’re thinking, you tap your temple. And if things are going well, the left side of your lip curls.” A satisfied smirk spreads across Hanamaki’s face, like he’s won a game.

“When’d you figure that all out?” Matsukawa asks, furrowing his brow.

Hanamaki gestures to the scene in front of him. “You’re the only person I’m looking at from here.”

* * *

(Here’s one distinct fragment that Matsukawa still remembers to this day:

“If you combine our names together, you get ‘great silence’ _._ I think it fits us quite well,” Hanamaki said one day, as he’s lying on the balcony. His dark brown haori, patterned with flowers, is draped on top of him as a blanket. He felt like they were floating, living in some world that was not quite their own reality, like in a _ukiyo-e_ painting.

Matsukawa was sketching his face, looking back and forth between Hanamaki and the drawing. “Exactly in what way? You’re a really chatty person,” he asks, sketching the lines of Hanamaki’s lips.

“I don’t mean it like that,” Hanamaki replied softly.

He looked briefly at those dark eyes, holding a warm twinkle in them.

And Matsukawa didn’t ask what way Hanamaki meant.)

* * *

True to Hanamaki’s word, he challenges him to a duel one afternoon again. Matsukawa hadn’t touched the sword at all since his last duel and didn’t expect much of a difference this time around as he readied his stance, eyes focused on every centimeter of Hanamaki’s body.

Except he was wrong. Very wrong.

It took all the strength he could muster to push back Hanamaki’s attacks. As their swords danced and clashed, it’s all he could do to stand his ground against Hanamaki’s onslaught. The man saw through all of his feints and dodges, as if he could see the next moves Matsukawa would do. Beads of sweat drop onto the polished floor. As time went on, Matsukawa could feel his energy sap even more, until—

“My point,” Hanamaki huffs, pointing his sword right at Matsukawa’s throat. The very exact spot as the first duel.

“You win,” he sighs, relaxing his shoulders. “Good fight you put up.”

“Were you going easy on me?”

“Say that to me with a straight face again, I dare you.” He tosses his sword aside and takes a seat, still breathing from his mouth. “You’ve changed.”

“I said I was gonna beat you. Of course I’ve changed.” Hanamaki takes a seat, leaning against Matsukawa’s shoulder. He could feel Hanamaki’s breath on the fabric of his kimono.

“You’ve changed too,” Hanamaki murmurs.

And this sort of change wasn’t a conscious one. It was one that hit the two before they had realized it, bringing them closer together in a whirling storm that swept them off their feet. It came both all too soon and all too late, all too fast and all too slow. 

“I know.” Matsukawa’s head rests on top of a head of muted coral. “Three weeks sometimes does that to a person, depending on who you’re with.”

“Three weeks, huh…” Hanamaki’s eyes are looking somewhere far away. “You know, it takes around three weeks to get to Italy, if you’re fast enough.”

“Times are changing. Took me at least a month when I went.”

A hum of affirmation escapes from Hanamaki’s lips. Their conversation lulls, but they didn’t need words to communicate their thoughts.

All of Matsukawa's mind is on what Hanamaki would look like wearing his wedding outfit.

* * *

“So how do you know when this painting is finished?” Hanamaki asks him. The afternoon sunlight streams through the room, spilling onto the paint palette.

He takes his brush dipped in a coral color, tapping it lightly onto the canvas. “You don’t, really. It just happens in the spur of the moment.” _As did a lot of things_ , he thinks.

“It looks like me this time.”

A wry smile forms on Matsukawa’s face. “I wonder why.” He sets the paintbrush in the jar of water. “I think I did pretty well, considering how much you moved around.”

“What was that? It’s your fault you took your sweet time finishing this.”

Hanamaki meant it as a joke, but Matsukawa looks askance. 

“Once it’s done, you’ll be…” he begins, but can’t find the right words to finish his sentence.

A confused look appears on Hanamaki’s face, slowly replaced by one of understanding.

“What is this? So now you don’t like this whole thing?” His tone hardens. “Aren’t you supposed to support me?”

A muscle in Matsukawa’s jaw twitches. “Of course I support you,” he says drily. He turns to face Hanamaki, reading into his every line and curve. Some days, Hanamaki’s thoughts were right out in the open, but today was not one of those days. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Then what else am I supposed to do?” is Hanamaki’s response, coming out like a strangled cry, laugh, he’s not sure which. “Do you want me to resist? Do you want me to run?”

_What do you want me to do?_

“You could”—Matsukawa begins shakily—”come with me. To Tokyo. We could—we could manage. It can work.” His voice comes out weakly, fizzling in the air.

“I can’t do that,” says Hanamaki, with a fragile smile that could shatter at any moment. “You and I both know that.”

Hanamaki’s cage wasn’t just large pine trees, Matsukawa learned. He had the weight of his father’s legacy to hold up, the burden of social expectations, the future of the family all holding him down.

And he knew too, when he bore witness to Hanamaki’s fire, that he was destined for something that a simple painter in Tokyo could not measure up to.

Matsukawa lets out a long exhale through his mouth, his shoulders dropping shakily. “So yeah, I don’t like it.”

He sees Hanamaki’s fists clenched tightly, so much that his veins pop out, then they unclench. A clear look of frustration darkens his face.

“I’m going out for a swim. Don’t follow me,” he finally announces. With long strides, Hanamaki exits the room, and everything’s silent again.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Thought you were swimming.”

“Thought I told you to not follow me.”

Matsukawa finds Hanamaki at the pond, the same spot those weeks back.

“Just came here out on my own and found you here,” he replies. “Well? How was the water?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t go in.”

The spring breeze ruffles his hair, bringing the faint scent of flowers to his nose. 

“He comes back tomorrow,” Matsukawa says quietly.

After a long second, Hanamaki finally turns to face him, his face on the verge of falling apart.

“I’m not ready,” he pleads, taking a step closer. “What am I supposed to do? I can't keep running, can't I?”

All in a moment (again), Hanamaki’s face is buried in Matsukawa’s neck, barely holding back the rivers that threaten to spill out with ragged breaths. His hands find comfort on Hanamaki’s jacket, the feeling of stiff, thick fabric in his fingers. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles hoarsely, wishing he could say something better. “I don’t know.”

Hanamaki’s hands snake up to Matsukawa’s neck and their foreheads touch, breaths on each other’s skin. Matsukawa’s fingers caress Hanamaki’s cheeks, the feeling soft underneath his fingertips. They soak in every line, every detail, every curve of the other’s faces, as if today was their last, as if tomorrow they would forget each other’s faces, as if in the future, they would never see each other again. 

“Forgive me,” he rasps, his lips pressing once more against Hanamaki’s. “Forgive me.”

There’s no sea nearby, but he tastes a hint of salt on Hanamaki’s mouth.

* * *

Some time later, they’re back inside. Matsukawa uses a small brush dipped in a warm brown to apply the final touch, a small stroke on the ear, Hanamaki watching him intently.

“There. It’s finished now.”

He takes a step back, viewing the completed portrait. The face of Hanamaki stares back at him, looking just like the one next to him.

They had one more day together, he thinks, but why does it feel like it was all over now?

* * *

Matsukawa is drawing a small portrait of Hanamaki as the two are lying on his bed, with his colored pencils. He taps Hanamaki’s moving nose with the tip of his pencil. “I’m almost done, so sit tight now.”

“Can’t I get something from you to keep?” Hanamaki asks. The morning sun illuminates his hair, which Matsukawa wants to keep the color for himself.

“Can’t get enough of this face?”

“Yeah, I like my men looking absolutely done with everything.”

A chuckle slips out from his lips. “Alright, where do you want it?”

Hanamaki reaches past Matsukawa, their bare shoulders brushing. He takes the book on the night table.

“Give me a page number.”

“You’re seriously going to make me draw on your father’s book..”

“There’s no better face to deface it with. Give me a page number,” repeats Hanamaki, with that lopsided grin.

“Four, then.”

“Keeping with the trend of death, I see.” Hanamaki flips open to the fourth page, which is fortunately blank at the top. “Here.” He hands him the book.

Matsukawa stretches out his wrists. Using the mirror leaning against the wall, he starts sketching his self-portrait, Hanamaki now laying on his side to get a closer look. He hasn’t done a self-portrait in a very long while, he realizes, and certainly not for somebody else.

“Your lips should be wider there,” Hanamaki points out. 

“You’re really not letting me catch a break.” Matsukawa erases the line and redraws it slightly below the faint pencil mark. “Happy?”

“I was just messing with you. I think it was fine the first time.”

“Let me work in peace for once.”

Though of course, that never happened.

* * *

After dinner, they’re on Matsukawa’s bed again for the last night.

“Will you regret any of this?” Hanamaki murmurs, his nose just centimeters away from Matsukawa. 

“No, I won’t regret it. I’ll only remember,” he replies, though that wouldn’t make everything any less painful. “Like I’ll remember the time you fell asleep drooling in the kitchen.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Hanamaki grumbles, but there’s no threat in his voice. “Then I’ll remember the time when you accidentally smeared paint on your face and didn’t notice until an hour later.”

“That happens all the time,” Matsukawa chuckles lightly. “I’ll remember the first time you laughed.”

“You took your time to be funny.”

“Takes two to do that.”

Hanamaki grins. “I’ll remember the first time I wanted to kiss you.”

Matsukawa’s eyebrows knit together in thought. “When was that?”

“Guess.”

“The cherry blossom festival?” he offers.

“I did, but it was even earlier.”

His eyebrow raises quizzically. “When we first met?”

Hanamaki lets out an exasperated huff, shifting his hands underneath his head. “Who do you think I am? It was when you read the story to me. About Patroclus and Achilles.”

“Oh.” There’s a brief pause that lingers as he recalls the memories of that day. It had only been a week, but it felt like eternity ago. “Yeah, I think I did too.”

“Wow, are you trying to be smooth by riding off of me?”

Matsukawa rolls his eyes, though he couldn’t quite stifle a laugh. “Go to sleep,” he groans, but he knows neither of them would be able to.

As if reading his mind, Hanamaki completely ignores that statement. “What you said that night, was it true?”

“What’d I say again?”

“That you’d do what Patroclus did. Did you seriously forget?”

“No,” to the question, and to his answer. “No. I think I’d try to live.”

Matsukawa doesn’t know if he was the first person to bear witness to Hanamaki’s flame, but he’d see it to its end. It was the least he could do, in his world soon to be split apart from Hanamaki.

“You think?” Hanamaki rolls onto his back, looking at the ceiling. “I think I would choose his ending now. Doesn’t sound all that bad.”

Matsukawa’s eyes don’t leave Hanamaki’s face. “I found the right words, by the way,” he continues, “To answer your question. What it feels like, to be in love.”

“Really now?” Hanamaki hums. “Care to share?”

“It’s now," he replies quietly.

Hanamaki’s eyes turn to face him. Blinks once, twice.

“Didn’t think you to be the tacky type,” but he says it so tenderly, without any mocking present.

Matsukawa’s about to say _look forward to it then,_ but he instead says, “You were the one who asked.”

* * *

And all too soon, their floating world is brought back down to earth.

The marquess and his servant arrived at the house sometime in the afternoon.

“Very good,” Marquess Hanamaki says after careful examination of the canvas. Without another word, he hands Matsukawa his payment in a brown envelope. “We will have this shipped out at the earliest convenience. Thank you for your time.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Matsukawa bows, though his voice comes out thicker then intended. The marquess is already at the door of the room. 

“Takahiro. Come with me, I have a gift for you,” he says, completely ignoring Matsukawa now.

Hanamaki looks at Matsukawa for a fleeting moment, eyes unreadable, and follows his father out of the room, sliding the door shut gently behind him.

With a sigh, Matsukawa starts packing up all his tools methodically, his hands moving on their own. All too soon, he’s hammered the final nail on the box and checks once again to make sure everything’s secure. Matsukawa grips the handle of the box in his hand. It’s lighter than he expected.

For the final time, Matsukawa looks around the place he’s lived in for the past three weeks: the blanket tossed haphazardly on the bed, the desk, untouched, the chair, and the piano. His presence would soon be erased by time, so he takes the memories here and exhibits them in a gallery, locking the doors, tossing the key into the depths of his mind. Maybe time, too, would fade the brilliant colors and blur the lines, but certain feelings stayed forever. And maybe one day this would only bring him pain, but for now, he’ll live on with it.

Without another glance back, he exits the room.

* * *

He makes a stop at the marquess, one last time, at the request of the servant.

When the door to the room slides open, Matsukawa is greeted by Hanamaki wearing an all-white suit, buttoning the blazer, and the marquess giving him a final look-over.

“Once again, thank you for your service, Matsukawa-sensei,” the marquess says once he notices Matsukawa, extending his hand out. “Our family is eternally thankful for the portrait. I wish you a safe journey back to Tokyo.”

“I am grateful for your wishes,” comes out of his mouth, but he’s more focused on Hanamaki instead. The white of the suit, gleaming in the sun, almost blinds his eyes.

Their eyes meet, one final time. Hanamaki’s face is drawn in an overly demure look, trying to be nonchalant, but in his eyes were swirling with a pure fragility that Matsukawa barely stops himself in time from reaching out to.

“Have a safe trip,” Hanamaki manages out, his voice choking slightly on the end.

“Thanks. I wish you the best,” he replies mechanically. All too formal, too polite, too _wrong._

Without another glance back, he exits the Hanamaki residence, crosses the wooden bridge at the entrance, and enters the carriage. They drive off, the floating world crumbling behind him and time resumed its eternal flow.

* * *

Since then, he’s seen him again twice.

On a winter’s day, Matsukawa is at an exhibition in a newly-opened museum in Tokyo. For reasons he doesn’t know (and doesn’t quite care about as much), the two styles of art have decided to coexist in harmony now. Stuffed in his pocket is a brochure of the pieces on display he hastily grabbed from the front desk.

His painting is hung up on a wall near the back, squeezed in with a bunch of others, some of landscapes, some of people, all framed gold. Matsukawa turns slightly to face the crowd of people, watching powdered faces pass by in a blur. He’s not quite sure who—or what—he’s looking for.

“Are you standing guard here?” a middle-aged man asks with a distinctive accent. European, though Matsukawa isn’t sure from where. He’s wearing a muted chartreuse-colored suit (something Hanamaki would’ve laughed at) with a head of long hair, showing streaks of white.

“No. I’m just simply observing the reactions,” Matsukawa replies, almost forgetting to not bow.

“If you wouldn’t mind me giving my own then, I quite like this depiction of Patroclus. Rarely do you see him the moments after his death, only with Achilles. It is a painting with his awakening-to, but also filled with his regret. Truly, marvelously done.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your words.”

Later, he pulls out his brochure to find the painting he really came here for, somewhere in the east wing. Matsukawa pushes past crowds of people donned in formal garb, speaking in hushed tones, pleasantly milling around like peacocks. Some give him questioning looks, but he pays them no attention: his focus is on finding the painting.

When he arrives at the east wing, he scans all around the muted blue walls for the painting. Then he finds it, on the right side, hanging just below Matsukawa’s head. He impatiently waits for the people viewing it to move, and then stands right in front of it.

The man in the painting is wearing a cream-colored suit with a muted red tie, matching his hair color. Sitting next to him is his wife, a woman with a head of blond curls, high cheekbones and sculpted face. Lips painted bright red, a soft yet firm smile, one that had presence. Her blue dress of satin compliments her eyes. A child, still wide-eyed at everything, holds her hand.

Matsukawa doesn’t miss the book held in the man’s right hand, number four printed in the corner. He looks back at the face. A perfectly serene and still face, though betraying the hints of a smile gracing his lips.

_You got yourself a pretty fine-looking wife, all things considered._

_You’re looking dead as always,_ Hanamaki shoots back, laughter ringing in his ears. Matsukawa’s eyebrow twitches and he allows the smallest of smiles on his mouth.

_I missed you, asshole._

The painting doesn’t say anything back.

* * *

There’s one final time when Matsukawa saw him.

Some years later, Matsukawa went back to Rome on a visit to his old teacher over the summer. For the very last day he had bought a ticket to a concert that was playing Vivaldi’s Summer. He ascends the staircase to the balcony area on the side, muttering “excuse me” in rusty Italian to the already seated as he crosses over to his seat. A full orchestra is on the stage, the members all at attention. He sits down, settling into the soft velvet of the chair.

There’s a man that enters the balcony opposite of his, hair a familiar shade of coral. Apathetic eyes, pale skin, slightly upturned nose, and mouth drawn straight across in a line. The man takes a seat and loosens his suit.

The people around him are clapping for the conductor that has just made his way onto the stage, but Matsukawa’s hands don’t move, staunchly frozen on his lap. He hadn’t even noticed the conductor, as his eyes were only focused on the man across from him.

_Takahiro._

In the distance, the piece begins. The sounds of the frenzied strings fill the hall, but Matsukawa’s eyes don’t leave their spot.

Hanamaki’s face starts to morph: at first, it remains neutral, betraying none of his emotions. Then, his lips tremble slightly as the music swells. His shoulders rise and fall slowly. Underneath the warm, muted glow, the corners of Hanamaki’s eyes glisten brighter than normal. They blink once, twice, some more, in a desperate attempt to keep the tears at bay. Hanamaki’s grip on the chair tightens, then contracts in time with the violin solo’s cry. His mouth lets out a ragged exhale, as if he was trying to speak, but couldn’t find the right words to say. The music crescendos once again for the last time and Hanamaki’s eyes are now red, barely able to hold back the crashing wave.

On a resounding finale, everything’s over. Hanamaki wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and claps loudly, rising from his seat, his face holding the same lopsided grin Matsukawa fell in love with all those years back.

And the storm finally ends, leaving behind nothing but emptiness in its wake.

**Author's Note:**

> [summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVc1bg6Omeo), worth a listen. (find me on twitter [♠](https://twitter.com/senshiire) for art i did of one scene in here)


End file.
